Again
by Niger Aquila
Summary: Written for the prompt "Do Over": Haytham wakes up after he died, back in the body of his nine-year-old self. What will he do differently? What will he do the same?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: All right, another Assassin's Creed story, because writing Haytham is fun.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.

* * *

**Part 1**

Haytham prided himself on his ability to stay calm even in the direst of circumstances. It was essential in his line of the work, where the slightest distraction might jeopardise the mission and get him killed. So when he woke up in the middle of the night and found himself in his room at Queen Anne's Square, he did not panic. When he noticed something was wrong with his body and found a child staring back at him in the mirror, he managed not to make a sound and even had the presence of mind to change out of his nightshirt before leaving his room.

The silence in the hallway made him tense and the unaccustomed weightlessness around his forearms reminded him of the fact that he was unarmed. Not that he couldn't defend himself with his bare hands - a quick snap of the neck could be just as effective as a thrust of his blade - but the situation was highly unsettling and he hated being confused. Cautiously, he lit up a candle and walked down the stairs to the entrance hall, taking in the familiar sight. The place - his childhood home - was exactly as he remembered it, down to the cracks and scratches on the walls and wooden floor. It was as if the fire had never happened. He walked across the entrance hall to the games room and let himself in. Bookshelves lined the walls of the room with a covered billiard table at the centre. This was where he had spent countless hours with his father, learning how to use a sword.

With his second sight, he found the King James Bible in the bookshelves easily enough. He triggered the switch and watched as the books slid aside to reveal a secret compartment. The journal with the Assassin insignia - the one his father had died to protect - was in there, but it was not what he had come for. He pulled out the box next to the journal and opened it to find a short sword, beautiful in design and very well made. He reached for it and knew at once that it was indeed the sword his father gave him on his eighth birthday, the same one he lost in Corsica when he was twenty-eight. The weight of this particular sword in his hand brought home the fact that this was not a dream. He was a child again and all that had happened in his life had not yet come to pass.

_How could it be?_

The last things he remembered were fighting his son at Fort George and dying, but that was not all. He remembered seeing a young man whose clothes bore a distant resemblance to the white robe of an Assassin, though it was much plainer with barely any place for concealing weapons. The poor excuse of a hood, instead of masking his face, made him look even more ridiculous. Tried as he might, Haytham could not recall what the young man had said to him. All he knew was that when he woke up again, he was back in London. No, he was back in _time_ itself, it would seem.

"Interesting," he murmured, then winced at how high-pitched his voice sounded.

Somehow, the clock had been turned back. He had no idea why, but as far as he knew, the only ones capable of such a feat were Those Who Came Before - the precursors who had always been tauntingly out of reach. He wondered if everyone had retained their memories of the future or if he was one of the few, and how this would affect the events to come.

"Hmm. Very interesting."

#

Acting like a child felt very much like an infiltration mission (and as an added bonus, the thought that it was a 'mission' made the whole experience far less humiliating). His old journal was an excellent source of information, reminding him of how he used to act at this age. So far, he managed to avoid detection and fooled all those he came across (though he might have got a little too stiff when his mother hugged him and acted a little too indifferently to his sister's bitter glare). But the real challenge came when his father returned home.

Given a few more days, Haytham knew he would be able to perfect his act. For now, though, it was far from flawless and his father was a perceptive man. If there was anyone who would notice something was wrong, it was him.

Haytham's trepidation made him extra sensitive to his surroundings, which was why, when he was poring over his old journal under the stairs and spotted a flash of red from the corner of his eyes, he had jumped to his feet before he realised what was happening. It was only because of the weeks he had spent working with his son, who had remained stubbornly red throughout the ordeal, that he managed to stop himself from attacking his father.

They stood facing each other and for a moment neither of them moved. Haytham forced his tensed muscles to relax. This was not his enemy, he told himself, his chest tightening at the fact that he needed the reminder at all. This was his father, the man who trained him, who he had always looked up to. There was no need to fight. There was no need for anyone to die.

His own thoughts frustrated him. Just how much had he changed from the boy he used to be?

A lot, obviously, seeing as his father had never been anything but a comforting blue before.

"Jumpy are we, Haytham?" said his father.

"Sorry, sir."

"Ready for today's training?"

Weapons training, with his father blazing in red. Wonderful.

"Of course, sir."

#

It was only when he was back in the safety of his room after dinner that he allowed himself to drop his guard. Whoever had turned back time and made him relive his life must have a cruel sense of humour. While many would see this as an opportunity to correct past mistakes, he happened to be quite satisfied with the life he had lived and would rather not do so again. There were regrets, of course, but he was never one to wonder what might have been. He had even _said_ as much before he died, but apparently no one had listened.

And so here he was in the past, where he was still an innocent little boy in his mother's eyes and a future Assassin in his father's, but that could not be further from the truth. He was fifty-six, a man who had taken countless lives and a Templar Grand Master who firmly believed in his Order's ideals despite the lies that made up his life.

But there was not point in being sentimental now. He was not about to think he could simply start over and be that little boy again. What he could do was to make the most of this unwelcoming opportunity, which meant there was planning to do.

It was too early to say for certain, but from what he had seen so far, he seemed to be the only one who had retained his memory of the future and he fully intended to take advantage of what he knew, changing the events to come to further his cause - the fact that he was not a part of the Order yet made little difference. But if he changed too much, he might risk altering the entire course of the future and rendering his knowledge irrelevant. He had to think this over carefully.

Part of him, however, had already come to an unpleasant realisation.

His father's death was the turning point in his life. It was what took him away from home and from the Assassin Brotherhood. It was the reason he scoured Europe with Reginald, fought alongside Braddock in the Dutch Republic, and later, travelled to America. It was the beginning of everything, and the one event he could not afford to change.

There was no other way. In order to maintain some control over what was to come, he had to let his father die.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Nothing ever went as planned when it came to his family.

And really, he should have expected as much.

The night of the attack had started out the same as before. He saw the signal light from his room's window and, for the sake of keeping everything as it had been, sneaked out of the mansion. But instead of venturing far into the orchard like last time, he simply hid himself at the stable, waiting for the mercenaries to break into his home and for the moment when he was supposed to enter the fray. He managed to time it perfectly, too, racing through the kitchen and reaching the stairs just as his parents' door flew open. His father killed one of the mercenaries then hurried towards the games room, leaving Haytham alone to defend his mother.

Last time, he was a boy who had never killed but was forced to do so because a man was about to slit his mother's throat. This time, he was a killer who had experienced enough suffering and loss to know not to take unnecessary risk. And so he wasted no time to pick up the dead mercenary's sword and charged forward, running past his mother to the attacker behind her and driving the blade through the man's throat before he had a chance to scream.

It was his first mistake.

"I don't see any of the intruders here. There should be no more danger," he said to his mother, knowing there was indeed no more danger for them except the spreading fire in the mansion.

No, it was his father who needed help. He was fending off two men at the games room, trying in vain to protect a journal that contained information on the precursors. That was where he would be killed, and where Haytham needed to be. Not to help, but to be rescued (he was hard-pressed not to scoff at the thought) by Reginald Birch - the man who would become his mentor and the one behind the attack.

"I am needed at the games room," he said.

Last time, if he remembered correctly, his mother had run into his arms and hugged him. This time, she merely stared at him with a dazed expression and did not stop him when he ran down the stairs - his second mistake - _with_ the sword he had taken - his third and gravest.

When he reached the games room last time, he father was dying with a sword buried hilt-deep in his chest. This time, he had killed the mercenary at the stairs a little too quickly and left his mother without first escorting her to the entrance hall, so when he arrived at the scene, his father was still fighting. He was clearly the most experienced of the three, but his opponents had the advantage in number and Haytham could tell it was only a matter of time before his father was overcome. And he was right. One of the mercenaries struck at his father's throat, forcing him to block with his sword and exposing his back. The other man leaped forward, drawing back his blade for the killing blow. Then his body gave a sharp jerk as Haytham's sword plunged through his chest from behind.

_He should have dropped the damn sword when he had the chance._

Cursing himself, Haytham stood back and watched his father fight the remaining attacker, already knowing who would win. With his other sight, he could see a flash of white moving away from the games room. It was Reginald, he knew, retreating now that his plan had failed.

His father killed his opponent and walked over to him, looking surprised but proud and as _red_ as the men lying dead on the floor had been. Haytham did not even want to think about the complications this new development would bring, but he supposed he should not be surprised. He had spared his son, too, hadn't he? He had saved the boy from the gallows and stayed his hand at the abandoned church when he should have struck. He could only hope he would not end up kneeling in his own blood years later and saying 'I should have let you die long ago' this time around.

"Well done, Haytham," his father said.

Well done, indeed.

#

Like before, the entire household moved to Bloomsbury the day after the fire. His father and sister were there this time, unaware that the course of their lives had just been altered. The move, the deaths and the funerals occupied everyone's mind, but Haytham knew very well what his tenth birthday meant to his father - and to himself, a lifetime ago - and was therefore not surprised when he was summoned to his father's study that night.

"You wish to see me, sir?"

His father nodded. He was standing behind his desk, facing the window. "Your mother told what happened at the attack."

"The man was approaching her from behind with a sword. I had to act."

Haytham could not remember the last time he had to justify a kill to anyone and part of him was annoyed he had to do so now.

His father turned around and watched him closely. "And how did you feel about it?"

"I felt no sadness or regret. I only did what had to be done."

As always.

His father eyed him for a moment longer, then gave a slight smile. "Yes, you did what had to be done." He stepped forward and placed his hands on Haytham's shoulders. "And I thank you for saving my life, Haytham."

Haytham returned the smile. There was little he could do to salvage his plan at this point, so he might as well take joy in the fact that his father - that his family - had lived through what had once destroyed them. He would worry about the future once his fear was confirmed.

He shouldn't have to wait long.

"Now, Haytham, do you remember asking me why you were given weapons training?"

"Yes, sir. You said you would tell me on my tenth birthday," Haytham paused, "and that my real training would begin today as well."

He knew he ought to act a little more eager, but it was hard to muster any excitement when he knew exactly what secret his father was about to share. He had always known what would have happened had his father survived, and it seemed he was actually going to live through that possibility now, all the while remembering everything from his old life.

This would not end well.

His father motioned to the wooden box on his desk. "Open it, son."

Haytham rested his hands on the box and glanced up at his father, giving the man one last chance to reconsider. But of course his father had no idea how outrageous this decision was and all Haytham could see in his eyes was pride.

He opened the box slowly and let his hand run down the narrow blade - longer than what he was used to. He hesitated, then reached for the leather bracer and turned it over. At the centre of the bracer, as expected, was the insignia of the Assassin Brotherhood, no longer rusty but shining proudly in the light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

Haytham was a man who lived by his principles. Even after finding out that his mentor was the one who ordered the attack on his family and the death of his father, the thought of betraying his Order had never crossed his mind. He made sure Reginald pay for what he did, of course, but it did not change the fact that he believed in the Templars' cause. Needless to say, he was most displeased to find himself trapped within the path of an Assassin.

Oh, he could already imagine the joy of working with the likes of Davenport. Why, he might even end up shouting 'freedom is peace' on rooftops with them one of these days. But what could he do? It was not as if he could go straight to Reginald and, as a mere boy of ten who had been raised by an Assassin, claimed he believed humankind was vicious and self-serving in nature, and that peace could only be achieved through order, not freedom.

He would certainly find a way to return to his Order, but not yet, not for at least several years. At this age, he was still largely ignorant of the reality outside the walls of his home. He had no reason to question his father's teachings and to switch side now made absolutely no sense. There was no other option, he would have to stay with the Assassins. And stayed with them he did.

The first few years were spent learning - or rather, pretending to learn what he already knew. His father devoted the majority of his time to him, tutoring him at home at first then taking him out for missions later on. His body, though young and agile, lacked the strength he once possessed and he often found himself struggling to follow what his mind told him to do. As frustrating as it was, the occasional slips and falls helped complete the image of an inexperienced boy. With time and training, jumping from rooftop to rooftop and balancing at the top of churches would come easily to him again.

Fighting was another matter entirely. He could hardly remember how he used to fight when he was a child, let alone mimic it. The fact that he had learned many of his moves from Reginald only made matters worse. He tried to hold back and limit himself to basic manoeuvres, but his father easily noticed the change in his fighting style. There was little he could do but claimed he had been practicing on his own. It was a weak explanation, but likely the same one his father had in mind, because what other reason could there be? That he had another mentor when he spent almost all his time either by his father's side or on missions?

It was a shame, really. He would have enjoyed this the first time around. He would have revelled in the attention his father gave him and flourished under his tutelage. He would have wanted nothing but to be an Assassin. But now, he was planning to defect. And he was not exactly looking forward to it.

Because then his father would _know_.

Haytham was not about to deceive himself into thinking his father's opinion no longer matter. And while he always stood by what he believed in, a part of him had been glad that he did not have to face his father in his old life and see the contempt and disgust in the man's eyes - much like what he saw in his son's.

Well, something could not be helped. He could only hope it would not come to swords when the time came.

#

"Stop chasing me!"

Haytham leaped to the next rooftop and glanced down at golden blur on the ground. Calmly, he walked past a chimney and perched on the edge of the roof, watching as his target pushed away a group of orphans and dashed down the road, unaware that he had already been overtaken. Haytham waited for the man to reach the end of the street and jumped down, tackling him from above and pinning him to the ground.

"Well?" he drawled.

The gaunt-looking man relinquished the stolen purse and fled as soon as he was released. Haytham let out a sigh and started walking back to the market, where the purse's owner was waiting.

After seven years, he had grudgingly accepted that, yes, he _had_ to help out these people and run their errands for them, however time-consuming they might be. It was not as if he never did that in his old life, but apparently the Assassins went out of their ways to do so. Well, he had nothing better to do with his time anyway. There were no men for him to lead, no wars to be involved in, no grand plans to be put in motion. At the moment, he was merely an apprentice - which, while insulting, at least spared him the need to wear the Assassin's robes.

The lady at the market thanked him profusely when he returned the purse to her. He nodded and walked away, continuing his journey back home in the dark night. It was no wonder why the Assassins were such a naive bunch, optimistic to a fault and disgustingly self-righteous, claiming the moral high ground when they themselves killed in cold blood. Why, anyone would turn out that way if they spent all day basking in the admiration and gratitude of those they aided.

But stopping a thief and helping a few orphans meant nothing when the city - when the nature of _humankind_ itself remained the same. The poor would still be forced to steal; the children would still starve. The poverty and oppressions would never end unless the source of the problems was removed.

Still, the Assassins' way was not without its merits. The small deeds that they did win people over to their cause and add strength to their words. It was something Haytham had always known - that one must practise what one preached. He had once advocated it in his Order, too, but the more he saw and the more he _killed_, the less important it became. Perhaps this time he could -

He tensed. Someone was following him.

Subtly reaching for his dagger, he walked away from the crowd and ventured into one of the quieter parts of the city. His stalker was still tailing him, slower now and from a distance. Whoever it was appeared white, not red. And his choice of hiding places was... familiar.

This should be interesting.

Haytham rounded a corner and walked into a side-alley. Dark and empty, but wide enough for a proper sword fight if need be. Perfect. He stopped and turned around.

"Evening, Mr. Birch," he said, his voice carrying across the quiet night.

Reginald stepped into the alley. "Not bad, Haytham. You have certainly grown since the last time I saw you."

"It has been seven years."

He nodded. "You have been told about me, I assume?"

"That you are an enemy? Yes. Though I doubt it is common for the Grand Master himself to come and track down a mere Assassin apprentice."

"No, it isn't. I have come to talk, Haytham."

"Oh?"

"Your father and I may be enemies, but I have always respected him. He is a man of great conviction," said Reginald. "But because he is a man of great conviction, he can, at times, see only one side of the picture. I wish to present you the other."

"The Templars' side."

"I know what you must have heard about us, Haytham, but the truth is, we want very much the same as you do. Peace. Justice. For the world to be a better place."

"The Assassins seek freedom, Mr. Birch," said Haytham, playing his part. "Peace and justice will come when all are free."

Reginald couldn't quite suppress a scoff. "Do you honestly believe that? That the people would choose what is right over what benefit them when given the choice? No, Haytham. The people are weak. They need an example to follow, to provide guidance."

"To enslave them, you mean," Haytham countered, enjoying this amusingly familiar argument.

Reginald shook his head. "I hear your father in you."

"But of course."

"The people will always be subservient to the few in power, boy. Open any history book and you will see. The Templar Order seeks to put a stop to this endless cycle of war, conquest and subjugation, nothing more."

"And who is to say all will be better under the Templars' rule? Words alone mean nothing, Mr. Birch. You need proof to win people's confidence," said Haytham, and actually meaning it. He had seen his Order crumble once and would rather not do so for a second time. Something had to change.

Reginald let out a humourless snort. "Speaking like a true Assassin. Your father will be proud."

"No, he won't. But enough of that." Haytham tilted his head. "Why me, Mr. Birch?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I imagine you would have a much easier time recruiting someone who isn't already... set in his ways. You are aware of how I was raised. You should know how unlikely it is for me to betray my father and his teachings."

"Ah, but it is precisely because you were raised to take this path that I felt obliged to offer you another choice," said Reginald. "The Assassins advocate the freedom to choose, do they not?"

It was Haytham's turn to snort. "I am guessing it has something to do with my... family inheritance?"

Reginald raised an eyebrow and regarded him with renewed interest. "Your father has told you much more than I thought he would."

"Father is a practical man, he does not believe in... mysterious weapons or beings that predated our own."

"But you do."

"Perhaps," said Haytham. "Whatever you are looking for, you believe it can only be accessed by those of a certain bloodline, am I right? That's why you seek to turn me to your side." He had suspected it for some time, but never had the chance to confirm his guess in his old life.

Reginald watched him in silence for a long while. "Yes, that is right," he admitted at last. "But believe me when I say that it is not the sole reason I approach you today. You are young, Haytham, and you clearly have the talent. It would be a shame to see you waste your life on a fruitless pursuit."

"Hmm. I agree."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

Haytham pulled out his sword and charged, taking advantage of his former mentor's confusion. Reginald recovered just in time to block what would have been a killing blow.

"Foolish boy. You are years too young to fight me."

"We shall see, Mr. Birch."

Haytham twisted his sword free and pivoted his body, bringing himself behind Reginald in an instant. He thrusted his blade forward, aiming for the neck. Reginald dodged, whirled around and swung his sword. Haytham leaped away to avoid the the attack, then lunged forward and struck again. He knew better than to hold back against Reginald when the man was in his prime, unlike the last time they met.

"Don't force me to kill you, Haytham."

"Oh, you can certainly try."

Reginald's strength was superior, but Haytham had speed on his side. And most importantly, he knew his opponent well. Reginald was the one who trained him, after all, and they had fought each other countless times before. Conveniently enough, only one of them remembered it.

But he was not aiming to kill, or even to best his former mentor. No, the point of starting this fight lay somewhere else entirely. Even though his knowledge of the future could greatly benefit the Order, no one would listen to the words of a young Adept. Hated as he was to admit it, he knew he needed Reginald on his side if he wanted to get anything done. Not as a mentor, but as an equal who was aware of the truth.

Now that he was no longer holding back, the decades of experience that guided his sword should be blatantly clear to someone as skilled as Reginald, as was the similarity between the way they fought. And so when they jumped apart at last, Haytham was not at all surprised to find his former mentor staring at him in wary recognition.

"Who taught you how to fight like that?"

"Why, I would think it is quite obvious."

"Stop playing games, boy. This isn't how your father fight."

"No, I suppose not."

Reginald bristled and Haytham grinned, not bothering to hide his glee. It was surprisingly easy to separate the irritated Templar Grand Master before him, who could not even bring himself to admit he was confused, from the one he remembered - the one who destroyed his home and killed his father, who deceived him for decades and died insisting it was for the best. Of course, Haytham was not about to forget that this Reginald would have done the same given the chance, but the relationship between them had clearly changed this time around.

"I see you are enjoying yourself," said Reginald, his voice tight.

"My apology, Mr. Birth, if I have somehow offended you. It has been a long time since I had a good spar. I forgot myself."

Reginald stared at him, then shook his head. "A _spar_, was it, Haytham? With the man your father told you was an enemy?"

"Father always insists that I think for myself. I don't believe we are enemies."

"Oh? Are we not now?"

Haytham was about to answer when a distant scream pierced the silence. Robbery, most likely, or something more sinister. He scanned the darkened streets, but found nothing. The culprit, no doubt, was already fleeing.

"You asked earlier if I really believe peace and justice would come when all are free," he said. "I don't. I have stopped believing in that nonsense years ago."

Reginald's eyes widened. He studied Haytham's face, as if gauging his seriousness. "And does your father know of your... change in opinion?"

Haytham shook his head. "It never changed. Father simply failed to sway me to his cause. Not that I expected him to."

Reginald frowned. "Sway you to his cause? You were raised as an Assassin, how -"

"All in good time, Mr. Birch."

Caught off guard as he was, all Reginald managed to do was stare at Haytham in exasperation, then he let out a long breath. "I see you have grown into a very interesting young man, Haytham. Very well. Keep your secrets for now."

Haytham smirked. "Until next time then."

He sheathed his sword and walked away, confident that he would not be followed. Knowing Reginald, the man would no doubt waste precious time and resources of the Order to unearth his 'secrets' before approaching him again.

In the meantime, he would return to his family. With the way things were progressing, he might have to leave them very soon.

#

Edward took off after his son once he made sure the family they rescued was safe - the child was terrified and the mother was sobbing, but they were mostly unharmed. It was fortunate that he and his son had chanced upon them before the robber decided to carry through his threat and fire his pistol.

Though the night was thick and drizzling, Edward had no trouble tracking the radiant blue light that was speeding across the rooftops. Haytham was moving swiftly, running down narrow beams and jumping huge gaps without hesitation. Edward had no doubt his son would be able to catch up to the robber and deal with him. No, it was the thought of _how_ Haytham would deal with the man that spurred Edward to run faster.

Within the short span of seven years, his son had grown from a boy to a capable Assassin. He learned all Edward had to teach with ease and completed all his missions without fail. His skills already exceeded that of an apprentice, but Edward was reluctant to fully induct him into the Brotherhood.

Not yet.

He was starting to wonder if that day would ever come.

While he was proud of his son's growth, the lack of any real eagerness to learn did not escape his notice. Haytham did learn, of course, but there was always a subtle air of dutifulness about it. There was arrogance too - not at all surprising considering his progress - but that was not what concerned Edward most.

No, it was his son's complete lack of mercy that was worrying.

Chilling, even.

It was so uncharacteristic of the boy Edward remembered - the boy who chose clemency over revenge, who found it in his heart to forgive even when he was only eight.

The worst part was that Edward had no idea what had gone wrong. He had thought it had something to do with attack seven years ago, when Haytham was forced to kill two men in order to protect his family. But whenever he looked into his son's eyes and saw the calculating coldness in them, he couldn't help thinking he was missing a large part of the picture.

He couldn't help thinking he knew nothing about his own son at all, about this boy who he loved with all his heart.

The sudden disappearance of the bright blue light from Edward's line of sight alerted him that his son had leaped to the ground, likely landing on top of their target. He pushed himself to run faster, arriving at scene just in time to hear his son speak.

"Any last words?"

"I won't do it again, I promise! Please, I have children. Don't -"

"_No_!" shouted Edward.

Haytham's eyes darted to him, but his blade did not stop, slitting the man's throat in one quick motion. He retracted his blade, then he stood back up and calmly met Edward's gaze. There was no remorse, no hint of him being affected by the death at all.

"Have I taught you nothing, Haytham?" said Edward, his voice revealing none of the anguish he felt. "We do not kill unless it is absolutely necessary."

"He was ready to kill when we arrived."

"But we stopped him and the family was safe. He did not deserve to die for what he did not do."

"What would you have me do then? To let him go free so he might try again? I thought we were supposed to protect the innocents."

Edward narrowed his eyes at his son's mocking tone. "Or he might become a better man, if he was shown kindness for once and given a second chance. We do not have the right to judge, Haytham, to impose our own form of justice upon others."

"And should he harm another because we refuse to act out of a baseless hope that he might _change_, whose responsibility would that be?"

Hearing those words and seeing the _conviction_ in his son's eyes - the conviction that he had done right by killing the man - something in Edward crumbled.

"What have I ever done, son, that you should have so little faith in your fellow man?" he said, feeling old and tired. "Where did I fail?"

A flicker of emotion crossed Haytham's face and for a moment he almost looked pained, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced once again by a cold calmness.

"You did not fail, Father," he said. "The damage has been done long ago."


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

Ever since his family moved back to Queen Anne's Square, Haytham had taken to spending long hours at the stable, tending to the horses. It was something he rarely had the time to do himself when he was a Grand Master, and a task many in the Order thought was beneath him, but he had always enjoyed the company of animals. They never judged and their hearts were incapable of betrayal. Life felt much simpler in their presence.

"Out here again, Haytham?"

He patted his mare's neck and turned around to face his unexpected visitor. "Evening, Jenny. What brought you here?"

Jenny tilted her head. "Can't I come and speak with my brother?"

Haytham could not remember the last time his half-sister had come and speak with him. In fact, he could not remember the last time they had spoken to each other at all, despite living in the same house.

"And what is it you wish to talk about?"

"What else could it be?" said Jenny. "This argument you are having with Father is getting out of hand."

Haytham raised an eyebrow. "One would think you would be grateful for the distraction, Jenny."

After the attack, Jenny had become much more vocal in her dislike of their father and his attempts to arrange her marriage. Their heated arguments were a stark contrast to Haytham and his father's cold debates, but both often ended with their mother in tears.

In that way, Jenny was right. The situation _was_ getting out of hand.

"Just why did you save that hypocrite?" whispered Jenny, though her voice rang loudly in the quiet night. "Freedom for all, but he wouldn't even let his daughter make her own choice."

"Would you rather I have let Father die?"

"Don't tell me you aren't regretting your decision, Haytham. You can't wait to return to your Templar brothers, am I right?"

Haytham stiffened. Return to his Templar brothers? Well, who would have thought?

"I'm impressed, Jenny. You managed to act exactly the same as you had been."

She shot him a contemptuous look. "You thought you were the only one, didn't you? You thought a woman like me was nowhere as important as -"

"I never assumed I was the only one. I have been looking for signs of changes I did not make, but you seemed content to let things play out naturally."

No, that was not true. Jenny now abhorred the idea of marriage, or simply just spending time with other men. The scars she carried in her old life had returned with her.

"Why would I want to change anything? It was entertaining enough to see you fumble with history," she said. "But why - _why_ did you save that man? At first I thought it was because you wanted to be an Assassin this time around, to live the life you never had the chance to - "

"_Really_, Jenny?"

She glared at him, then let out a loud breath. "Yes, I should have known better than to think you would ever betray your beloved Order. Why then?"

"Does it matter? What is done is done."

She studied his face, then her lips curled up in an ironic smile. "You simply acted, didn't you? You couldn't bring yourself to let him die. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You have always idolised him."

"I respect him, in a way, but we have very different views. One day, we will be enemies."

"You're leaving, then?"

"Yes. Soon, I believe."

Jenny shook her head. "You and your pointless war."

The disgust in her voice was clear, as was the bitterness. For the first time Haytham wondered if his sister had once _wanted_ to be an Assassin and get involved in what she now claimed was a pointless war. Most likely, now that he thought about it. She had always said the future favoured him, hadn't she? She had always been jealous because their father only wanted to train his _male_ heir.

Not that it mattered anymore. In her old life, she had become a victim in the conflict between the Assassins and the Templars, being sold to slavers and forced to serve as a concubine. It was no wonder that she now only wanted to live in the luxurious comfort of their family home.

Jenny turned around to look up at the mansion looming over them. "It hardly makes any difference now, but... I stopped receiving your letter all of a sudden," she said. "I don't suppose it was because you'd got too busy with your Templar duties?"

Of course no one would have told her, thought Haytham. He almost never talked about his half-sister. He doubted even Charles was aware of her existence.

"When one partakes in the business of death, one naturally expects to be killed one day."

For a long time Jenny remained silent. "Who did it?"

"An Assassin."

She cast him a sideway glance. "The one you mentioned in your letter?"

He nodded.

"You said he was just a boy."

"Ah, but he's also my son. Your nephew, as it happens."

She stared at him, stunned, then bursted out laughing. For once, it was not laced with bitterness, but it was not a joyous sound either.

"Our family must be cursed."

"Oh, our whole goddamned _bloodline_ is cursed, Jenny."

After all, it was going to happen again, wasn't it? Father and son on opposite sides? It was likely going to end exactly the same way as before, too. One of them would die, by the blade of the other.

Haytham could pinpoint the moment when he knew he would have to kill his own son (or be killed by the boy, apparently). That particular end had always been likely, but it was only after the Battle of Monmouth, where Connor had decided to aid Washington despite knowing what the man had done to his village, that Haytham knew there was no other way. The boy had put his ideals over personal vengeance and that made him a dangerous enemy to the Order. He had to die, and Haytham had to be the one who did the deed. He was the one who brought the boy to this world, after all.

By the same logic, he knew his father would come after him when he defected, believing it to be his own fault and taking responsibility for creating an enemy for the Assassins. They would fight each other and only one of them would emerge victorious, only it was no victory at all.

Ironic, really. Haytham was living his life for a second time and already he could tell that history was going to repeat itself. Then again, was it really so surprising? The whole of human history was made up of repeating cycles. The same went for the conflict between the Templars and the Assassins, with neither side ever managing to maintain the upper hand.

For the Templars to win this ancient war once and for all, they needed something more... absolute. The answer, Haytham knew, lay in Those Who Came Before and what they left behind. Reginald was obsessed with them, and it seemed he did have his reason. They needed to find a way to get inside that cave and the key alone was not enough. What then?

"Scheming again, Squirt?"

Haytham shot his sister a frown, but she merely smirked.

"I don't know what you're planning, and I honestly don't care, but... do try not to die before me this time around, will you?"

Without waiting for a reply, she left the stable and walked back to the mansion. Haytham stared after her then shook his head. Cold-hearted killers and sentimental fools. Yes, his family was cursed indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

The boy was an enigma. He wielded his sword like a master and fought with experience he should not have. His actions and ideals were nothing like his father's, but he had no other mentor. His eyes were those of a killer who had taken too many lives and there was a ruthlessness about him that made no sense, not with the way he had been brought up. And his sole explanation to all these puzzles was simply ridiculous.

"You are the one who believes the precursors have left behind some artefacts that can control the actions of an entire race, Mr. Birch, and yet you find it unfathomable that they can also turn back time?"

Reginald eyed the boy standing beside him on the rooftop, who was once again casually divulging information he should not know - or rather, information Reginald had never shared with _anyone_, not even those in the Order.

"Assuming what you said is true, Haytham -"

"Well, you are certainly welcome to come up with a more satisfactory answer on your own."

And such blatant disrespect too! Reginald refrained from snapping in irritation. He had a feeling the boy would find it amusing rather than intimidating. No wonder Edward was so distressed over his son. Of course, there were also other reasons.

"You were a Templar in... your other life then?"

"Obviously."

"What brought you to the Order?"

Haytham looked up from the streets and met his gaze. "Oh, but you already knew the answer, Mr. Birch. You had my life planned out, after all."

Understanding dawned on Reginald. He had not forgotten his plan for the Kenways. Had his men succeeded in killing Edward years ago, he would have taken the boy under his wing and trained him to be a Templar. The plan had failed before it had even begun, but it seemed it had been carried through to completion in another time, another future.

What an absurd notion.

But it was the only explanation as to why the boy fought as if Reginald had trained him himself when he most certainly hadn't. The blasted boy even seemed to have _improved_ on Reginald's style by adding new elements to it.

"I trained you then?"

"You did."

Haytham turned back to the streets below. His eyes took in everything, though it was without the deadly sharpness Reginald had seen earlier, when he watched the boy stalk his prey for interrogation - and subsequent assassination.

"I raided your residence, by the way, when I found out the truth," said the boy. "You died claiming you only did what was right."

"Oh? And your response?"

"You destroyed my family and deceived me for years. I hope you aren't expecting me to say I agreed with you. You should have known I would turn against you one day."

"But not the Order."

There was a brief pause. "No, not the Order."

That was good enough for Reginald, though he could not speak the same for the other version of himself, the one who had apparently died by the hands of his own apprentice.

"You should watch your mouth, boy. Claiming you have killed me once is hardly a wise move."

"Ah, but you've forgotten I know you very well, Mr. Birch. The Templar cause is more important to you than your own life, and I am an ally you cannot afford to lose."

There was nothing amusing about the situation, and yet Reginald felt his lips twitching. To think he used to consider Edward a most impossible man to deal with. His son was even worse.

"Your father is unaware of... your knowledge about the future, I assume?"

"Of course, I am not in a habit of divulging information to my enemies," said Haytham, his tone nonchalant. "You may also want to give those you called your 'spies' some proper training; they clearly did not understand the meaning of stealth. Why, one of them seemed to think crouching in a bush made him invisible."

"And that's why you knocked him out?"

"I have little patience for incompetence, I admit."

Coming from a boy of seventeen, it was an incredibly haughty statement, if not for the fact that he had the skills and experience to back it up. The boy held himself like a leader and the way he spoke almost reminded Reginald of himself.

"What was your position in the Order?"

"Grand Master of the Colonial rite."

Ah, of course. Poor Edward, it seemed, had been fighting for a lost cause without knowing it, trying to make his son an Assassin. The thought of a Templar Grand Master ever defecting was ludicrous.

"You will have to work your way up the rank again."

"I wouldn't expect anything - " the boy paused. His eyes flickered to the darkened rooftop of a building to their right, then a grim smile crossed his face.

"What is it?"

"My father will arrive shortly. It is impossible to hide from one with our sights and he just happens to be tracking a group of bandits around this area tonight."

Reginald chuckled. So the boy had picked this particular spot for a reason. "You wish to be seen talking to me."

"I need a way to explain my change in allegiance," said Haytham.

He pulled out a book from the pack he carried and handed it to Reginald, who recognised it at once. It was the journal that contained the information the Assassins had on Those Who Came Before. Edward might not believe in their existence, but because of his bloodline, he was chosen as the journal's keeper. Reginald suspected the boy had taken the journal for some time, but was only making a show of it now.

"I assume you want to deal with your father on your own?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Come find me at the Order's Headquarters in London once you're done. If you've been telling the truth, you should know where it is." Reginald walked over to the edge of the roof, then paused. "And may the Father of Understanding guide you... brother."

#

Haytham readied himself as the flash of red drew near. His father was in his Assassins' robe, with both his hidden blades, a sword and a pistol. They were equally armed.

"Haytham."

"Father."

The white hood covered his father's eyes, hiding whatever he was feeling. Shock, no doubt. And disappointment.

"What were you doing with Reginald?" he asked, his voice grave.

"We talked."

"He is a Templar, son."

Haytham let out a long breath. There was no point in evading the subject.

"As am I."


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

Edward searched his son's eyes, looking for hints of lies or guilt or anything, _anything_ that might tell him all was not lost yet, but Haytham was calm and his gaze firm. He wore no ring, but it meant nothing. If he had indeed been working for the Templars -

No. It could not be true.

But it _was_. Edward could tell that his son was serious when he said he was a Templar. He also knew this encounter was no accident. Haytham had waited for him to arrive before handing a prized possession of the Assassins' to the enemies, practically declaring his defection and forcing Edward to face the truth.

Because the signs had been there all along, hadn't they? All those needless slaughters. All those talks of _justice_. Haytham had been acting like a Templar for months, for _years_, but Edward had refused to see, to even consider the possibility that his son might have switched sides. Yes, he was ruthless at times, and yes, he refused to listen, but he was just a boy and all he needed was more time.

"How?" he heard himself asking, his voice no more than a whisper. "How did they get to you?"

Haytham let out a slow breath and looked away. "It's all about timing, really. Reginald told me about the Templars long before you even said anything about the Assassins."

Of course it was Reginald, the elusive Templar Grand Master who had managed to hide his identity even from the Assassins. As Edward's property manager, he used to be a frequent visitor to their home. No doubt he had approached Haytham then.

"Reginald was the one who ordered the attack on our family, son."

"Aye, because you are his enemy. And for all your talk of mercy, do the Assassins ever show the Templars any?" said Haytham. "I am not about to forget what he did, or forgive him for it, but this is war. Our two orders have been trying to eliminate each other for centuries."

Edward shook his head. "What exactly has Reginald been telling you?"

"The other side of the argument, so to speak," said Haytham. "What the Templars want. What the world truly needs. You told me to think for myself, Father. That's what I did. I picked a side, and it's not the Assassins'."

"I told you to think for yourself, son, not to impose your own idea of right and wrong on others," said Edward. "I trained you so you could strive for a world where everyone can be free to make their own choices, not to use your sword to force others into compliance."

"Ah yes, you never care much about the results, do you? You want me to think freely. You want everyone to be able to make their own choices, and then what?" Haytham walked over the edge of the roof and looked into the distance. "Listen to all these noises. Everyone wants something different but no one is willing to compromise. In time, there will be chaos. There will be wars." He turned back around to face Edward, his gaze intense. "Our kind cannot handle freedom, Father. Sooner or later the people will yearn for peace, for order, for someone to tell them what to do."

For a moment Edward found himself lost for words. Not because of his son's argument, but because this was not the boy he was accustomed to. No, this was what hid behind his facade of coldness and what Edward had only caught glimpses of; this was a man who had experienced the horror of the battlefields, who had seen much of the world and of the cruelty of mankind.

It made no sense.

"Even if that is the case, it does not give the Templars the right to rule," he said at last.

"Better someone who wants what is best for the world than some privileged cowards who only care about their own gain and plead ignorance to the suffering right before their eyes," said Haytham, gesturing at the bustling streets below.

"Many of those 'privileged cowards' you speak of believe they want what is best for the world as well. How are the Templars any different?" countered Edward. "Power corrupts, son. Do you remember what I told you about Rodrigo Borgia and the madness he brought to the people in Europe? Is that the kind of world you want to see?"

Haytham narrowed his eyes. "That man was a tyrant who poisoned the doctrine of the Order. That's why we have more than one Grand Master now. What happened before will not happen again."

"Oh, but it will," said Edward, his voice rising. "The Templars may start out with good intentions, but their very nature give rise to self-serving tyrants. We cannot force the world to change, Haytham. No one person should be given that much power and no one person has the right to shape the future of mankind." He paused for a moment to collect himself. Losing control of his anger now could hardly help the situation. "It is true that we have created a lot of problems, and that we can be cruel and greedy, but we also have the strength to change, son. For every mistake we make, we learn from it, and little by little we make this world a better place. That is the way it has to be."

Haytham gave a snort of derision. "I applaud your optimism, Father, but the truth is we have been repeating our mistakes over and over again. Back in the day we have swords and arrows, and now we have firearms and canons. What next? With the way we're going, we'll end up destroying everything along with our civilisation."

"If that day comes, we'll have to bear the consequences of our actions," said Edward. "But I don't believe it will come to that."

"Oh but it will," said Haytham, repeating Edward's earlier words. "You live in a dream, Father. You and the Assassins. I see the world the way it is, not as I wish it would be. And while you wait for it to change, I will do what must be done."

Edward could see the fire in Haytham's eyes. The hunger for action. The urge to make a difference. The conviction that what he did was right. He had no idea where he had failed, but he knew his son had to be stopped before it was too late, before he was given a taste of the power he yearned for and lost his way.

"Tell me, son, what does your sight tell you now?"

Haytham looked up to Edward's half-covered face. "That we are enemies," he said, his voice quiet yet steady.

Edward let out a sharp breath. It shouldn't be surprising, given all that had been said, but he had thought -

He had failed completely, then. Both as a mentor and as a father.

Numbly, he reached for his sword and levelled it at his son, as he had done so many times before in the games room. Even now, he could easily recall the sound of ringing wood and the determined face of the small boy he had trained, clenching his training sword in an uncertain stance. Haytham had grown into a capable swordsman, but he was still young and had much to learn. If they were to fight now, he stood no chance at all.

Edward lowered his blade. "And enemies is what we shall be, after tonight," he said. "So run, son, and run far. Because the next time we meet, I will not hesitate to do what I must."

Haytham blinked, then a humourless smile crossed his face. "You have yet to see what I can do, Father. So be prepared, because the next time we meet, there will be no more holding back." He let go of the hilt of his sword but did not leave at once. Instead, he glanced down and turned his wrist so the Assassin insignia on his bracer caught the faint light of the moon. "And..." he cleared his throat, "and for what little it's worth, I am sorry."

With that, he took off, leaping across the rooftops and into the night. The air lit up around him as he ran, first in brilliant blue, then in neutral white, and finally, in the golden yellow of one being hunted.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: (Who would have thought? It seems you are not a random NPC after all, Edward.)

* * *

**Part 8**

One year after leaving his family, Haytham found himself in Switzerland, following the trail of a traitor in the Order. He was closing in on his target, he could tell, but the man was a Templar-trained agent and, according to Reginald, very good at making himself disappear. Pinpointing his location was going to be tricky.

But he was not doing anything related to his mission at the moment. No, he was searching for his future second-in-command. Charles was supposed to be studying in a military academy in the town he was currently in and it was about time he started making some changes - changes he actually intended, unlike the mess he had left behind in London.

There were still several years before he was due to sail for America, but it never hurt to start planning early. The biggest problem, of course, was Connor, who had managed to cripple the Colonial Rite in more ways than Haytham cared to admit and singlehandedly resurrected the Assassin Brotherhood. Oh, his father would have been so proud of his grandson. A shame, really, because Haytham did not intend to let the boy live.

He had, long ago, considered the possibility of starting a family of his own, but he had chosen his work over his personal life and by the time he found out about Connor, he was already a different man, one who had killed too many and given all he had to his cause. He might have been capable of being a good father once, but no longer. And if it was not a strong enough reason for him to rob the boy of the chance to even _exist_, then there was also the possibility that his son would _remember_. Jenny did, after all, so it was reasonable to think Connor might as well. Haytham could not take that risk.

But his son was not the only problem. If the Templars were to rule, they had to win the people over. Charles was a keen pupil and an excellent leader, but he never seemed to understand that senseless slaughter and violence only served to drive neutrals away and create enemies. If Haytham could get a hold on him when he was younger, however, and start moulding him early like Reginald had with -

Well, it was hardly a fair comparison, was it? Both of Charles' parents were in the Order, so he was going to end up being a Templar anyway. There was no 'conversion' or any kind of deception involved; Haytham merely wanted to steer his future student in the right direction early on. Charles, of course, was only a boy at the moment and was likely very different from the man Haytham remembered, so it was best to observe from a distance first and plan from there.

After another round of fruitless search, Haytham resorted to his usual method and made his way to the top of a church tower near the edge of the town. He scanned the area. It shouldn't be too difficult to find -

_"Thief! Someone help me!"_

He sighed. Really? Well, it seemed looking for Charles would have to come later.

He jumped off his perch, dived into the pile of hay below and chased after the thief. A lifetime ago, he likely would have ignored the civilian. His time with the Assassins had changed him; there was no point in denying that. And he saw no reason to act differently just because he was a Templar now.

The thief relinquished the stolen necklace the moment he saw Haytham's blade then quickly scrambled away. Haytham returned the necklace to its owner and was about to head back to the church tower when someone blocked his way.

"How did you do that?"

It was a well-dressed boy around ten years old, glowing in blinding blue in Haytham's second sight with three Pomeranians tailing behind him.

Well, so much for observing from a distance.

"I beg your pardon?" said Haytham. It was the first time he spoke to Charles - and the boy was most definitely Charles - in German, if memory served.

Charles pointed to the top of the tower. "I saw you up there, then you jumped off and at the next moment you were down here and after the thief. No one can jump from that height and live."

Haytham motioned to the pile of hay on the ground. "Not unless you know where to land."

"Oh," Charles murmured, "I see now." He looked up at the tower again, absently reaching for his dogs as they yelped for attention. "What were you doing up there anyway?"

"It is a great vantage point," said Haytham. "You can overlook the entire town from that height."

"But you were _standing_ on the cross. I saw you."

When the other Charles first saw him scale a building and perform a Leap of Faith, he had been in awe for days. This boy, however, was eyeing the cross at the top of the tower with peculiar interest. This did not bode well.

"Don't even think about it," warned Haytham. "You'll fall before you even reach the first window."

Charles frowned at him. "I'm good at climbing."

"It took years of training for me to do what you just saw. You are way too young to be -"

"I'm not too young," Charles cut him off, looking offended. "I'm going to be an Ensign soon."

"_Really_?" mocked Haytham. "And, pray tell, how is that rank of yours going to help you climb? Magically extend your limbs?"

He really should watch his mouth; riling Charles up could not be a good idea. And yet it was hard to treat this boy as a mere child when, seeing him again, brought back all the memories of them fighting and planning together. But what if...

Yes, he might yet turn this ridiculous argument to his favour. Charles biggest weakness was his quick temper, which almost always led to rash decisions that harmed both himself and the Order. Now was as good a time as any to teach him a lesson.

It didn't take much further goading at all before Charles decided to take the insults as a challenge and made his way to the tower. Haytham said nothing when the boy started to climb; he merely crouched down against a wall nearby and watched. The boy's dogs took to him immediately, licking his hands and fawning on him.

Charles was a good climber; Haytham would give him that. In fact, he was the only one in their little group who could follow Haytham on rooftops. He couldn't always keep up and he absolutely refused to attempt any of the wider jumps, but he was still better than the others. (Thomas, on the other hand, was the only one besides Haytham himself who could pull off a perfect air assassination. John probably could as well, but the man usually opted to confront his enemies head on.)

Despite what Haytham had claimed earlier, the tower was not too difficult to scale and, as expected, Charles managed to climb about a third of the way up without trouble. The problem came when he reached a small window below a projecting ledge. He stopped and looked around, but there were no alternative paths.

Had Haytham been in his position, he would have simply jumped and grabbed the ledge above the window. Charles couldn't possibly have the strength to push himself into a jump when he was hanging in mid-air. Even if he did manage to jump, his arms were far too short to bridge the gap.

"See? This is what happens when you let your anger control your actions," said Haytham, loud enough for Charles to hear. "Had you bothered to take a good look at the tower, you would have known that even though it started off as an easy climb, you couldn't possibly get any further than this window. Now come back down before someone sees you."

Charles shot him an angry glare - not an easy feat considering his position - then looked back at the window he was hanging onto. He shifted his feet and looked further up at the ledge, then -

"Oh, for the love of -"

Haytham rushed forward when Charles pushed himself off the window and reached for the ledge. Or attempted to, anyway. He barely managed to lift himself up at all before falling. Haytham carefully adjusted his position and bent his knees, then let out a grunt as the boy crashed into him and sent them both to the ground. Charles picked himself up, uninjured but shaking, clearly in shock. Haytham couldn't bring himself to care. He grabbed the boy by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?" he snapped. "I expect impertinence and childish antics, but I see I have underestimated your idiocy. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

Charles looked about to protest, but whatever he saw on Haytham's face made him stop. He turned away, looking sullen. "There was no danger," he murmured. "You were down here."

"Really? You let yourself fall to your death and relied on a complete stranger to save your life? Right after being provoked by him, I might add."

Those words, instead of shaming Charles into silence, seemed to help restore his confidence. He even had the nerve to sound a little smug when he spoke.

"Father said whoever wears this ring is a friend." His eyes flickered to the Templar ring on Haytham's finger. "I wouldn't have talked to you otherwise. You didn't seem to be the most friendly fellow."

Haytham found himself staring, then sighed and let go of the boy. "Not friendly, was I? I seem to be under the impression that I just saved your neck."

Charles straightened his shirt. "I will repay you one day," he said, his voice surprisingly solemn.

Haytham raised an eyebrow. "Oh? We shall see."

He recognised the look in the boy's eyes as the same one the other Charles, back when he had just been inducted into the Order, had shown whenever he was given a particularly challenging mission. He rarely ever failed.

But the eagerness to prove oneself could only fuel a person for so long; what really mattered were beliefs and convictions. Looking at the boy in front of him now, Haytham wondered how Charles' life would play out this time.

He held out a hand. "Haytham Kenway."

The boy regarded him in silence for a moment, then reached out and took his hand firmly. "Charles Lee. Pleasure to meet you."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I have absolutely no idea where this chapter came from. The next one will be longer with more action I believe.

* * *

**Part 9**

"She is dead."

"I see."

"Why didn't you come back sooner? My letter should have reached you over two months ago."

"In case you have forgotten, Reginald, I am not exactly welcome in my family."

"Who do you think informed me of your mother's illness?" said Reginald. "It must have killed Edward to send me that message, but he knew I could contact you and thought you would like to at least return and see your mother for one last time. Apparently not."

Haytham's face showed nothing. "My presence would have caused her - and the entire household - nothing but further distress."

Reginald eyed the young knight before him, unsure of what to say. Normally he would have steered the conversation back to business - the personal lives of his subordinates did not concern him - but this boy... this boy was something else, just like his father, only he acted nothing like Edward at all. No, instead of Edward, the boy remained Reginald very much of himself, and his indifference towards his mother's death bothered him far more than it should.

"I am guessing this has happened before?" he asked, resting his hands on the desk and lacing his fingers together.

Haytham leaned back in his chair and stared out of the window. "She died of back injuries last time," he said after a while. "It is supposed to happen two years from now, but the circumstances of her life have changed greatly; it is not surprising that those of her death are different as well."

So Tessa Kenway had died two years earlier because of the changes her son had made. Haytham's face remained impassive. There was not a hint of guilt, or even sadness.

"And how did you... cope with the loss last time?" asked Reginald. "From what I gathered, you were fairly close to your mother."

Haytham frowned. "Don't tell me you are wasting all this time talking to me because you are worried I cannot cope with the news. I have seen enough deaths to -"

"That much is obvious, Haytham," Reginald cut in. "I am more concerned with the fact that you are hardly reacting at all."

Haytham blinked and stared at him incredulously. "Come now, Reginald. You are the one who wouldn't stop talking about the importance of controlling one's emotions."

"Yes, but instead of mastering your emotions, you are now bordering on heartlessness," retorted Reginald. "It is earning you a quite a bit of reputation in the Order, boy. I have been approached more than once with questions concerning your soundness of mind."

Those who knew of Edward Kenway's past, however, did not seem to find Haytham's ruthlessness and disposition to kill entirely surprising. If only they knew, as Reginald did, how much the man had changed since the day he decided to abandon his old ways and embrace the Creed.

Haytham scoffed. "Heartlessness?"

Reginald raised an eyebrow. "You are indifferent to your mother's death and talk about your father as if he is nothing but your enemy. You insist that helping those in need on the streets will benefit the Order's work in the long run, but you are as cold to those you aid as you are to those you slaughter. And exactly how many have you killed since you joined the Order? How many of those deaths were truly necessary?"

"Oh, this is rich, you -"

"I most certainly do not act this way," said Reginald indignantly. "And I would never have condoned this kind of behaviour from my students."

Not that the boy would ever acknowledge him as his mentor, which was just as well, given the fraudulent foundation of his apprenticeship.

Haytham's lips curled up into a humourless smile. "Are you perhaps... _disappointed_, Reginald? You who destroyed my family and claimed it was for the good of all humanity? Why, I would think you'd be rather pleased at how I turned out."

"That wasn't me," said Reginald. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Haytham said nothing, his expressions unreadable, then he looked away. "Aye, you are not him," he conceded. "Not yet, anyway. I don't know what happened to you last time, though I can only imagine how maintaining a lie for decades changes a man."

Reginald watched the boy for some time. "As does being betrayed by one's mentor, I am sure."

The silence that followed was long and uncomfortable. There wasn't even the sound of the rain to drain out the tension, what with the weather being unusually nice after a week-long downpour. The London sky was for once without a cloud, though the nice weather was unlikely to last for long.

Haytham cleared his throat. "Back to business, shall we?"

Reginald suppressed a smile. At least the the boy knew him well. "I have a mission for you."

"I figured as much."

"I need you to track down an Assassin in Spain and retrieve an item from him."

Haytham's eyes sharpened. "You've found Miko."

Reginald nodded. "He was last seen in Villena, though my spy was unable to confirm if he had the key or not."

"Well, only one way to find out."


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

Haytham never understood why the Assassins insisted on wearing their robes on missions, or in some cases, like Connor, all the bloody time. The hood hid one's face, yes, but a robe in white was not exactly inconspicuous, not to mention it was impossible to keep the blood off of it. (Especially when one happened to favour weapons that simply weren't designed for clean kills. A tomahawk, for instance.)

His father said it was because the Assassins did not strive for personal glory or empowerment (unlike the Templars, he had added), thus the tradition to conceal their faces and dress in similar fashions. Haytham suspected the robes also served as a way for the Assassins to place the burden of their kills - and whatever else they did in the name of the so-called 'freedom' - on the Brotherhood as a whole, instead of bearing it themselves.

In any case, the robes practically marked them as targets and all he needed to do to locate them once he arrived in Spain was to eavesdrop on a few conversations. Miko, apparently, owned an old house on the outskirts of Villena and he spent most of his time in there, doing God only knew what. Those who lived nearby called the man a _solitario_, and rightly so, since he almost never ventured outside. Haytham had caught a glimpse of him by the window once, but that was all. It was impossible to tell if he had the amulet, though Haytham couldn't see why he _wouldn't_. None of what he had changed so far should have any impact on Miko and his status as the holder of the key.

The other piece of information concerning Miko came as a surprise - he had a student. The boy - well, Haytham was around the same age, but that was beside the point - would leave the house early every morning and return around noon with supplies. He travelled _everywhere_ on rooftops while he was in the city, and he did so with such clumsiness that most often than not ended up attracting attention to himself.

Haytham had been younger when he first learned how to move about crowded cities unseen. It was a long time ago, but he remembered being much the same as the boy, insisting on taking the higher grounds whenever possible and getting himself - and usually Reginald as well - into quite a bit trouble with the guards. Watching Miko's student, Haytham found himself entertaining the thought of sparing him. It wouldn't be too hard; all he needed to do was to wait for the boy to leave the house before breaking in.

He knew what brought this on. The conversation with Reginald had left its mark, forcing him to acknowledge how much he had changed, not only from when he had been at the age he was now, but also from when he first became the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite.

It was not as if he had developed a penchant for slaughtering innocents or killing everyone who stood in his way. No, despite what Reginald - of all the people to call him 'heartless' - seemed to think, he _never_ killed unless he had a good reason to do so. Of that he had not changed.

What _had_ changed was that there was now a lifetime of experience for him to base his decisions on, and as a result, the deaths that he might once consider unnecessary now seemed otherwise. Back then, he likely would have spared Miko's student, deeming him harmless. Now, he knew better than to consider any Assassins 'harmless', committed as they were to their cause. He also knew killing the mentor while leaving the student alive was one of the biggest mistakes he could make. The boy would want revenge and a trained killer driven by the desire for vengeance was nothing if not dangerous.

Haytham waited until the boy was well away from the house before striking, from above. He pinned the boy on the ground, not unlike what he had done with his son at the abandoned church, only he did not stay his hand this time. All it took was a quick swipe with his hidden blade across the neck, then it was over. He closed the boy's eyes, took the key to the house and walked away. There was no point in lingering.

Once, he supposed, he would have lamented at the loss of yet another life, but slaughters and deaths had become such a routine for him that all that was left now was a sense of inevitability. Did that make him a cold-hearted man? Perhaps. Still, he took no pleasure in what he did. That, at least, had never changed.

As Miko's house came into view, all thoughts of his past slipped away, replaced by alertness. He had encountered the Assassin twice in his old life. The first time was in Corsica, with the man catching him by surprise and him only surviving out of luck. The second time was at Theatre Royal, with him sneaking up to the Assassin and stabbing him at the back. They had never fought each other, not exactly, though Haytham had seen enough to know that Miko was a skilled swordsman. The man was about ten years younger now, meaning he had less time to hone his skills, but was also physically stronger and faster than when they first met.

Nevertheless, Haytham let himself in through the front door, not bothering with stealth - it was not as if he could sneak up on Miko at his own home anyway. And as expected, he found himself face to face with the man within seconds of entering the house.

Miko regarded him calmly. "So you are Edward's son."

Haytham nodded and straightened himself. He had never quite considered the possibility before, but now that he was aware of how valuable a member his father had been - and in a way, still was - to the Brotherhood, it was clear that the Assassins had to have _known_ what Reginald had done the first time around, and that he was not just a Templar to them, but Edward Kenway's son.

"Name's Haytham Kenway," he said.

"I know," said Miko. "I also know why you are here, but I am afraid you are too late. What you are looking for should be out of the country by now."

Haytham let out a heavy breath. _Of course_ something was going to go wrong. Why did he ever think otherwise?

"Who alerted you?" he asked, though the answer was obvious. Whoever it was was good enough to reach Miko at least days ahead of him. Plus, this was clearly the result of one of changes he had made and there was only one Assassin alive who was supposed to have been long dead by this point in time.

"Your father knew you were coming and rode ahead to warn me," said Miko, confirming Haytham's guess. "He also came to ask me a favour."

"A favour?"

Miko gave him a tight smile. "I don't know why your master decided to send you on this mission alone - and that is a question you should ask yourself - but surely you are aware of the odds against you by now. You should have retreated when you realised a stealth assassination wasn't possible, and yet you chose to confront me directly, just as your father feared." He paused and shook his head. "You cannot hope to best me in a fight, child. In several years' time, perhaps, but not now."

Haytham bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue, though he couldn't quite stop himself from staring at Miko incredulously as his mind comprehended what the man was implying. "Are you saying my father was somehow under the impression that my Grand Master was sending me to my death intentionally? That he came all the way here - and in such ridiculous haste - just so he could ask you to... spare me?"

"Is it really so surprising that your father would seek to protect you?" said Miko. "You may have turned your back on his teachings, but you are his son and he is still holding onto the hope that you will return to us one day."

No, it was not surprising. Not bloody surprising at all. Haytham had done the same for son, after all, and he hardly even knew anything about the boy. All he knew was that Connor was his responsibility and it was up to him to show the boy the error of his ways.

His father, it appeared, shared the _exact_ same sentiment. Despite all that had been said and done, he still seemed to believe Haytham was being manipulated and was only working for the Templars out of ignorance.

"Where is he now?" he said, unable to keep the frustration from his voice.

"Now that the Templars are aware of what I was carrying, someone needs to move it to another location," said Miko. "I also fear your father's feelings might have clouded his judgement on the matter, so know that while he asked me to spare you, I did not make any promises. I told him I wished to speak with you first."

"Oh? And have you come to a... decision?"

Instead of answering, Miko glanced at the house key in Haytham's hand. "Where did you get that?"

Ah, the key, of course. Well, Haytham was not planning on playing the part of the wayward son who could still be 'saved' anyway.

"From your student," he said.

"And what did you do to him?" asked Miko, his voice deceptively calm.

"I killed him."

The Assassin inclined his head so his hood covered his face and stayed quiet for a long time. "I see the Templars have already corrupted you, if you are willing to go so far as to murder the innocents."

"My Order does not preach the slaughter of the innocents," said Haytham. "It just so happens that the Assassins fall outside that category." He tilted his head. "Are you planning to tell me that the Assassins act differently? That you have never condemned anyone to death for no reason other than their allegiance to the Templar Order?"

Miko narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Haytham pressed on.

"There is no point in denying that we are killers committed to opposite ideals, or to make up excuses to cover up the nature of our conflict."

He paused briefly, and for a moment his thoughts drifted unexpectedly to Achilles Davenport. He still remembered how broken the man had been after the purge, kneeling alone among the dead bodies of the other Assassins. He had no idea what had happened to Davenport's wife and son; all he knew was that they were dead and the Brotherhood was all the man had left. Then he found himself thinking of his own brothers in the Order, and of Connor, who had killed them off one by one with stoic self-righteousness, as if he truly believed he was ridding the world of evil, of men no one would miss.

"One day, perhaps, one of us will win this ancient war once and for all. But until then," in a swift movement, he unsheathed his sword and pointed its tip at Miko, "this is the way it has always been, and the way it will always be."

Miko was taken aback by what he said, he could tell, but he had no wish to pretend he was younger than he was, or to drag this conversation on any longer.

"Indeed," the Assassin said after a moment of silence. He pulled out his sword, his eyes never leaving Haytham.

They were standing near the front door of the house. The doors to the rooms were close, so there was barely any space for manoeuvring. For a moment neither of them moved, then Miko attacked. His strike held so much force that it almost made Haytham reel, but he managed to hold his ground and parried, creating an opening. Without wasting any time, he pivoted and thrust his blade towards the Assassin's side, then stepped back at once and returned to his stance, now with blood on his sword.

"This is the only warning you will get," said Haytham. "Don't underestimate me. You have no idea who you are fighting against."

Their fight began anew, far more vicious than before with the hidden blades coming into play. Miko's style bore a certain resemblance to Connor's. His blows were quick yet heavy, which made him deadly in the confined space. Haytham blocked and parried, attacking only with the occasional counter and waiting patiently for his chance.

The time came when Miko swung his sword a little too widely. Haytham lunged forward and struck with a precision honed by a lifetime of practice. His sword caught the Miko's weapon and wrenched it away. His other hand aimed a punch at the man's jaw, followed quickly by a kick at his mid-section. Miko fell backwards, slamming open the door behind him and crashing onto the floor. Haytham was on him before he could move. He grabbed Miko's wrist and pinned his other arm on the ground with his knee, then drove his hidden blade into the man's heart. Miko's body gave a sharp jerk, then he stopped struggling.

Haytham stood back up and retracted his blade. Miko looked up at him, his chest heaving up and down from his laboured breathing.

"You don't take joy in this victory," he said.

"No, why should I?" said Haytham. "Many have died because of this war, and many more will perish. There is nothing to take joy in."

Miko searched his face, as if trying to solve a puzzle. "What drives your sword then, Haytham Kenway? Why do you fight?"

Why did he fight? It was a question he often asked himself. At the very beginning, it was his father's approval that he sought, then Reginald's. Later, he fought because he shared the ideals of the Order and believed in the Templars' goals. He still did; that was why he had returned to this life of slaughter without a second thought when he found himself in the past. But he was no longer the idealistic man he used to be and the righteous fire that once drove him had long been extinguished, replaced by cynicism, weariness and, more than ever, a longing for peace - something the Assassins no longer strived for, and something he knew he would never have, involved as he was in the war against them.

Why, then, did he fight?

He looked down at Miko, and for a moment saw himself instead, lying broken on the ground, fell by his son's hand. The roles had been reversed and he was now in Connor's position, his blade stained red with blood, but he was no less broken, scarred by all that he had done, both in this life and the last.

"So that those who come after me will not have to," he said at last.

Miko's lips pressed into a thin smile. "A good answer," he said. His breathing was getting shallower and his words could barely be heard. "And I can only pray... that you don't lose yourself in pursuit of that dream." With that, his body slumped and his eyes closed.

"Lose myself?" repeated Haytham even though he knew the man could no longer hear him. "The boy you thought I am would be mortified, I imagine, if he were to see what kind of man he had now become."


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

Haytham knew he should leave. He doubted the Assassins were going to check on Miko anytime soon, but there was no point in lingering. Still, he couldn't shake off the feeling that he was missing something.

The two bedrooms in the house both showed signs of being used recently and there were food and litter in the kitchen. The one remaining room was large and clear of furniture except for a bookshelf against the wall and a table by the corner. The throwing knives and rope darts on the table suggested that the room was used for weapons training, but the one who needed it was Miko's student, not Miko. The man hardly ever left the house and Haytham doubted he was simply here to train his apprentice. What had he been doing then? There clearly wasn't any other work being conducted in here, unless...

He walked closer to the lone bookshelf in the training room that seemed oddly out of place. Most of the books were covered by a thin layer of dust, except for two near the middle. With a smirk, he took them out and was not surprised to find a hidden switch on the wall. Predictable Assassins. He pushed the trigger and heard the sound of metal sliding into place, then the wall to the right of the shelf slid aside, revealing a flight of stairs.

There was a small study below, with a desk at the centre and several bookshelves against the walls. Almost all of the books were about ancient legends and mystical beings. If Haytham were anyone else, he would likely be confused, but he was trained by a man who was obsessed with Those Who Came Before and could tell immediately what Miko had been researching in his secret lair. It was a shame Miko and Reginald were on opposite sides; they would have got along splendidly. Why, Haytham had seen many of the same books in Reginald's personal collection.

What he had _not_ seen, and what he found himself being drawn to, was the family tree pinned on the wall between two shelves. Or rather, _his_ family tree. It was not a large one, spanning only a few generations. His name was at the bottom, next to Jenny's and under his father's. The only other names he recognised was his grandmother's, though the identities of his ancestors were perhaps not as important as the fact that the family tree was in this room, among other information concerning Those Who Came Before. Reginald once said that he believed the gift of the second sight was passed down from the precursors themselves. Haytham had scoffed at the idea and brushed it off, but it seemed the Assassins shared the same belief.

He stepped back and took another look at the roughly-drawn tree. There was nothing out of ordinary, and yet his senses told him that there was more to be found, more to be _seen_. He closed his eyes and opened them again. At once, the light of the lamp on the desk dimmed along with the rest of the room, but the family tree on the wall glowed in gold.

It had also got much larger.

His breath hitched at the impossible sight and for a long time all he could do was stare at the name that had appeared under his own. _Ratonhnhakéton_. He assumed it was Connor's real name - something the boy had never told him. There were two more names under Connor's, then three in the next generation, then two more in the next. Judging from the size of the tree, it spanned at least two hundred and fifty years - two hundred and fifty years _into the future_ - ending with a single name at the bottom.

"Desmond Miles," Haytham murmured.

Like a trigger, the sound of the name brought on a wave of nausea. He shook his head and held onto the desk to steady himself, but whatever was happening did not stop. He grunted and clutched his head as another wave of nausea, stronger than before, hit him. The room seemed to spin and the golden glow of the family tree became unbearably bright. Then he heard it. A man's voice, deep and unfamiliar.

_"You need to find the Apple."_

Weakly, Haytham reached for his pistol, but there was no one in the room. The voice spoke again, seemingly coming from _inside_ his head.

_"We know you found the entrance to the Grand Temple, but you only had one of the two keys. You need the Apple of Eden to open the door. Find it before the Assassins decide to unleash the wrath of the first civilisation upon us."_

"What are you -"

_"Go to the Coliseum in Rome, Grand Master Kenway, and follow the footsteps of your descendant. May the Father of Understanding guide you to success."_

#

Haytham had visited many places before in his old life, particularly around Europe, but he had never been to the Coliseum in Rome. Once a blatant display of humankind's vicious nature, it was now a half-collapsed stone structure and the home of derelicts and criminals. Crouching low atop a stone wall, he could spot several dots of red in the dark, though none was close to where he was. He could also tell that if one was to hide a treasure in this place, it would likely be underground. Assuming, of course, that the treasure was really here, which was doubtful.

The Apple of Eden, supposedly the most powerful of the artefacts left behind by the precursors. All that was known about the Apple was that it was last in the possession of Ezio Auditore da Firenze - a name that was known to both the Assassins and the Templars. The Apple used to be another obsession of Reginald's, but there was so little information about it that in the end, even he had to concede defeat.

Haytham couldn't quite bring himself to believe an artefact of such immense power actually existed, but here he was, searching for it because of a voice in his head. Or perhaps it was not so much the Apple that he was looking for, but some answers. He was certain that whatever had happened at Miko's house, it was connected to his returning to the past. In fact, the more he dwelled upon it, the more inclined he was to believe that whoever had spoken to him came from the future. And as much as he hated the idea, he knew the best - and perhaps only - way to find his answers was to do as the voice asked.

Follow the footsteps of his descendant.

It was pure absurdity. He wasn't even sure what it meant until he arrived and scanned the area with his second sight. But as soon as he did, he saw it - the golden outline of a man, leaping from ledge to ledge and climbing on walls. Part of him was convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him, but he found himself following this... 'descendant' of his anyway. He had already come all the way to Rome; there was no reason to turn back now.

The man was fast and agile, though Haytham had no trouble catching up, matching his movement perfectly as he leaped and climbed and swung. That was, of course, until the man jumped _through_ the ground and disappeared. Clearly, the Coliseum was going to go through quite some changes in the future.

"This is madness," Haytham muttered.

He shook his head and started to find a way to the lower level. It was easy enough, but still he couldn't help feeling a sense of relief when he caught sight of his ghostly guide again. As crazy as this journey was, he would hate to have come this far only for the trail to end. The man - Desmond Miles, he assumed, and for some reason he was certain he was right - continued to make his way through the stone structure, stopping only when he reached the edge of a hole that sank deep into the ground.

This was the entrance, it seemed, but to where?

Miles hesitated, then jumped and landed on the bale of hay below. It was a long drop, and there was no clear way to get back up.

Haytham sighed. "I hope you know where you're going."

He pushed off and felt the familiar rush of air as he fell. A Leap of Faith. The name had never felt more appropriate.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: A reviewer asked which side of the Templar/Assassin war I am on. Well, I believe there is such a thing as right and wrong, and for the most part I don't really care how we make this world a little more 'right' and a little less 'wrong', either it is through a secret group's intervention or by natural progression (how do we distinguish between these two anyway?) or by the elimination of said intervention. That said, I am not the most optimistic of people. I don't believe we are currently bringing this world towards a better future, nor do I believe we can with the way we are now. So if I have to take a side, I will have to say the Templars, at least philosophically speaking. (Practically speaking, I think the world will benefit the most if the Templar/Assassin conflict goes on forever and neither faction has the power to win the war once and for all).

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. Juno's speech in this chapter is taken directly from Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood.

* * *

**Part 12**

Haytham could hear her as soon as he entered the church. She sounded human, and yet not. At first he thought she was speaking to him, but it soon became clear that it was Miles she was talking to. Unlike Haytham, Miles seemed to be able to see her as well. Whenever she started talking, he would stop and glance at a certain direction before moving on.

But how could she communicate with anyone? Her kind was long dead and their civilisation was destroyed. She even spoke of it, about how they had searched for a way to save themselves but failed, and how they were now guiding Miles to find the 'tools' they left behind so he could save humankind from the same fate.

Or so she claimed.

It was hard to tell if she was actually trying to help, or if she was simply there to mock and demean humankind. If it was the former, then she was being infuriatingly vague, offering information but nothing substantial at all. The more Haytham listened the more wary he became. What did the precursors intend? Why would they go through all the trouble to save the race they created as their slaves, but ended up taking over the world from them? And if they managed to communicate with Miles and 'guide' him to this place, centuries after their supposed extinction, what else could they do? What kind of power did they still hold over humankind?

Miles' companions, who appeared as nothing more than faint white shadows to Haytham, seemed oblivious to it all. They also seemed content to stay at the ground and bicker like children while Miles hopped from one ceiling ornament to the next, trying to open a passageway for them.

Haytham was of the belief that leaders should not send his troops to the front while staying safely behind. Rather, he preferred to do the opposite, fighting alongside his men and clearing the path ahead for them. Miles, however, was clearly not the leader of his group. He appeared almost accustomed to being ordered around and receiving little gratitude in return. Then again, Miles and his companions were Assassins - a fact that had quickly become obvious when they started to talk about the Templars - and the Assassins never cared much for order and structure.

In any case, Miles was good at what he did. At this height, a single misstep and he might fall to his death, but he barely hesitated as he flung himself from one narrow beam to the next. Following closely behind, Haytham allowed himself a moment to marvel at the complexity of the contraptions hidden within the church. There were switches all over the place, each bringing him and Miles closer to the highest platform.

With equal anticipation and trepidation, he activated the last switch. A stone pillar rose from the ground, its top glowing with an unnatural white light. Miles' companions gathered around it, but no hidden doors or passageways appeared. It was only when Miles reached the ground and placed his hand over the pillar that the platform they were standing on started descending.

Haytham did the same. For a moment nothing happened, but then the platform started to move, bringing him further underground. Whatever it was that powered the contraptions in the church also responded to him, but not Miles' companions, why?

Judging from all that he had seen so far, there was only one answer: their bloodline.

And so even though he did not understand how or why a seemingly normal stone wall would react to the spoken word 'seventy-two', he said the number anyway, and was not as surprised as he probably should be when the wall slid aside, just as it did for Miles, revealing a large chamber. In the middle of the chamber was a raised platform, and on the platform was a sphere shinning in gold.

The Apple.

What followed was a ridiculously complicated climb across the dozens of spike-like pillars around the central platform. At first glance there seemed to be many possible paths, but in truth there was only one. As Miles made his way forward, the precursor from before started to speak again.

_"A hundred years I might speak and still you would not know us. You with five senses. Us with six. The one we kept from you. To be safe. Now, you can never know. Only try. Grasp. You can see, smell, taste, touch, hear. Knowledge has been locked away._

_"After, when the world became undone, we tried to pass it through the blood. Tried to join you to us. You see the blue shimmer. You hear the words. But you do not know._

_"It is hard to stay contained. Knowing as we do. We wait for you, Desmond. You will come here. You will activate it. You will know only when it is too late."_

Miles grew annoyed at last. "Did you hear any of that?" he asked his companions.

As if the answer wasn't already blatantly obvious. Only those of a certain bloodline could open the door to this chamber and find the Apple. This was likely a way for the precursors to ensure that only those they deemed 'worthy' - by blood, not by ability, it would seem - could find their treasure.

About two hundred years in the future, Miles would find it. But by then he was already too late.

Pieces of a puzzle that Haytham had only become aware of a short while ago, that felt much larger than anything he had ever been involved in, started to fall into place. Whatever disaster that had destroyed Those Who Came Before was going to happen again, and the Assassins were trying to stop it by going into the precursors' 'Grand Temple', where they believed held the solution to the problem. And to the open the door to the temple, they needed the Apple.

But they were too late, just as the precursor speaking to Miles had predicted, and whatever they had done inside the temple, it had not ended well. And now someone wanted to correct the mess the Assassins had made - someone who knew what Haytham had found in America, and who also happened to serve the Father of Understanding.

Haytham jumped and grabbed the last beam. There was a dull thud, then a flight of stairs rose from the floor, bridging the gap between the entrance of the chamber and the central platform. He jumped back to the ground and walked up the stairs, both wary of the supposed power of the Apple and eager to find out what it could do. The ghost of Miles and his companions were ahead of him. They stood before the Apple. Miles hesitated, then reached for it. Haytham did the same.

He could feel it at once. The countless pulses of lives that the Apple was connected to and the power to completely dominate them. Already his mind was thinking of all the possibilities this discovery had opened up. With the Apple, he could end the cycles. He could bring peace. He could -

Miles gasped.

A second later, Haytham found himself unable to move.

"What's happening?" said Miles. "I can't move."

_"Your DNA communes with the Apple. You have activated it,"_ the precursor from before answered. _"On the 72nd day before the moment of awakening. You, birthed from our loins and the loins of our enemies. The end and the beginning, who we abhor and honour. The final journey commences. There is one who would accompany you through the gate. She lies not within our sight. The cross darkens the horizon."_

Miles turned around, still holding the Apple. "What are you doing?" he shouted.

_"The path must be opened. You cannot escape your part in this. The scales shall be balanced."_

Miles engaged his hidden blade and started to walk forward. "Stop, please."

_"You know very little. We must guide you. Cease your struggle."_

Haytham watched as Miles continued to move forward, struggling against the unseen power but unable to resist. One step. Two. Then he pulled back his arm and plunged his hidden blade into one of his companions.

"No!"

The anguished cry tore through the air, and with it, the ghosts of the future disappeared, but the power that held Haytham in place did not cease. He willed himself to stay calm and tried to recall every detail of what he had just seen, hoping to figure out what his hidden adversary could do. Miles had tried to regain control of his body but to no avail, and yet he had protested all the way. He could still speak then, and most importantly, he was still in control of his mind.

Would that be enough? Haytham could only hope that it would be.

For a moment the golden sphere in his hands seemed to pulse, then he found himself looking up against his will, away from the Apple to a spot on the right. A few seconds later, a translucent figure appeared, looking straight at him.

_"This is not yours to take."_


End file.
